


Ink About Me

by readwritesleep



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Drug Use, Evak - Freeform, Everyone is Queer, F/F, Hurt Isak Valtersen, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Jonas' POV, M/M, SKAM Fic Week, Work Colleagues AU, tattoo artist au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 23:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11838999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readwritesleep/pseuds/readwritesleep
Summary: They all have stories on their skin. That's why they do this, because they love stories. The tricky part is, stories don't turn into reality until they start to mix. When Even steps through the door of the tattoo parlour, a new story enters. Even might only have eyes for Isak, but Jonas can sense reality shifting around all of them.





	Ink About Me

_"We can do this tomorrow, Isak."_

_"I want to do it now."_

_Only one lamp is lit, and it's directed straight at Isak's back. The rest of the parlour lies in dust grey darkness. Through the posters and drawings cluttering the windows, the glow of the street lights is visible, hovering silently over an empty street. The cars are sparse at this time of night._

_"It won't mean any less just because you didn't let me do it when I was high at three in the morning."_

_Isak twists in his seat, and his eyes are so earnest that the blue seems to bleed. "But that's just it," he says. "It means something, and therefor you have to do it. When you're high. At three in the morning." His hands reach out and grab my face. The smile he gives me is sluggish from the drugs, but bright as only happiness can make it. "I'm free, Jonas."_

_At this point, I'm pretty sure my smile can rival his. I realise that it's a bit strange that only he is cradling a face in his hands, so I grab his face too. "You're free."_

_Isak looks like he could kiss me. He looks like he could kiss the world._

_When the needle starts buzzing, the feeling in my stomach buzzes with it. I dip it in red, in green, in blue, and watch the colours swirl together as the the morning light slowly creeps closer._

 ~

The parlour smells like winter, coffee and wet coats mixed with the vanilla of Noora's perfume. She likes to let the Christmas season linger into the first weeks of January. Her hips sway to the beat of a jazzy record as she's wiping down the counter, and Isak is flipping through a folder in the old leather arm chair. I don't think he's realised that his movements are synced with the music. He has his left foot balanced on his right knee, black jeans drawn tight over slender legs, heavy boot bopping up and down. His fingers trace each drawing before he flips to the next, and he lingers on a page for a few extra seconds every time the singer drags out a note in a sensual crescendo.

We’ve opened, but not many people have an interest in tattooes on Monday mornings. This time is mainly for us. It’s for me to doodle in a notebook every once in awhile whilst cleaning the equipment. It’s for Isak to get up and reapply his eyeliner. It’s for Noora to stop and stare dreamily out of the window whilst cleaning the counter. It’s for life to have its own pace, for once.

This time is not intended for business, and perhaps that’s why we all stop and stare when he enters. The bell chimes, a gust of cold air comes rushing in from the street, and even the lady on the record who’s been belting out lyrics for half an hour stutters to a stop.

He is tall, blond, and already has a smile on his face when he steps inside. The smile is brilliant, warm and eye - crinkling, but it slowly starts to drop when he notices that he is being attacked by stares on three fronts.

The guy clears his throat and points hesitantly over his shoulder. “It said you were open?” He says it like that, like a question.

Since Noora’s bright red bottom lip is still several centimeters away from the upper one, and Isak’s eyes are still wide, I quickly come to the conclusion that this one is on me. “Sorry, we’re socially inept in the morning. Have a seat.”

His smile starts to make a come back as I gesture towards the sofa. He has a good face, especially when he’s smiling. I quickly wipe my hands on my jeans and pick up a pen and my notebook, flipping to a new page before joining him. The sofa is next to Isak’s chair, placed so that they create an L that frames the low coffee table. The guy sits down at the far end, right next to Isak, and his eyes linger on the tattooed hands gripping the folder.

“Your work?” he asks. His eyes travel up, over the black designs decorating Isak’s forearms, over the grey button down that is bundled up over his elbows, the shoulders that are straining against the rough material, and finally settles on Isak’s face with a blinding smile.

Isak wets his lips, eyes still wider than normal. With the way the dark eyeliner is being stretched out around the striking blue, I can understand that the guy is staring. “Some of it’s mine, some of it’s theirs,” Isak says. He gestures with a hand, and I nod in affirmation. Noora raises her hand from behind the counter. She’s finally closed her mouth and is slowly starting to get back into the rhythm of the music.

“Brilliant,” the guy says. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off Isak. “I’m Even.”

“Isak.” He finally has the presence of mind to smile back. “What were you looking for today?”

Even reaches a hand into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulls out a crumbled drawing. “Something like this.” Their fingers brush when the drawing changes hands and Isak looks slightly pink. I settle back in the sofa with a barely suppressed smirk.

Isak pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes and smooths out the paper against his knee. His expression transitions from flustered to concentrated as he studies the drawing. What I tend to call his ‘work wrinkle’ appears between his eyebrows. “You’ve drawn this yourself?” he asks.

Even nods. “It’s not the finished product, though. I’d like some help with the design.”

“Of course.” Isak lifts his head and taps a finger against the folder that is balancing in his lap next to Even’s drawing. “Do you know what kind of style you’re after?”

“Kind of. Can I - ?” Even gestures towards the folder and Isak nods quickly.

“Of course.”

My eyes meet Isak’s as Even starts flipping through the portfolio. _He’s hot_ , Isak mouths. _I know_ , I mouth back. Isak grins.

“Ah, yes. This one.” Even has his hands splayed out on either side of a watercolor piece of a cherry tree in full bloom. The shades are soft, the edges fade out into blotches of colour, and I know every stroke like the back of my hand. It’s my piece. My eyes flicker up to meet Isak’s again, and I frown. _Dammit._

Isak tears his eyes away and clears his throat. “I better hand this over to Jonas, then.” He reaches over to give me the drawing. Even looks slightly put out.

“Right, yeah.” He picks himself up again remarkably quickly, and turns his smile on me. “Think you can make that into something?”

I accept the little paper from Isak and take a look at the rough pencil drawing. It’s a dandelion in full bloom, a single leaf sprouting from its base. “Yeah man, no problem. How big are we talking?”

“I want it to fit here.” Even pushes up the arm of his jacket and measures roughly a decimeter with his thumb and index finger, right where the the crock of his arm transfers into pale, delicate skin.

“Got it.” My eyes flicker over to Isak, who is tracing Even’s sharp jawline with his eyes. I scratch at the curls at the back of my neck and draw up a quick plan in my head.

“You know what,” I say, “how about I go file this and find you a colour pallet? Just wait here with Isak and I’ll sit down with you in a minute.”

Even brightens, and he nods enthusiastically. “Sounds perfect.”

The leather creaks as I stand up, and Isak gives me a knowing look. I give him a discreet thumbs up and head towards the back room.

I catch Noora’s eyes as I go past her, and she smirks whilst stoving the cloth she’s been using under the counter. “I’ll go make some tea,” she says loudly.

We stumble into the back room together, shoulders bumping, and as soon as the door closes behind us, Noora raises her eyebrows at me.

“ _I’m going to file this?_ What, pinning stuff on the wall is filing now?”

I throw my hands up and look at her helplessly. “I had to say something!”

Noora pats me on the shoulder. “I know. At least he’s pretty.”

I smile at her back as she heads over to the kettle. “Seems like Isak thinks so.”

Noora snorts. “Yeah, Isak definitely thinks so.”

When I head back out into the parlour, colour pallet in one hand and streaming mug of apple tea in the other, Isak and Even are huddled together on the sofa, heads bent over the portfolio in Even’s lap.

“This is yours too?” Even says. One of his hands are pointing at a design, the other is resting lightly on Isak’s knee.

Isak nods. His eyes are bright, and his right hand is slowly gravitating towards Even’s. “Yeah. This one and - “ he flips the page “- this one.”

Even laughs, a low, heartfelt sound that makes Isak grin. “I love it. Someone has this on them?”

A wide grin spreads over Isak’s face. “Yeah, Jonas.”

“Which one of my sins are you showing off?” They both jump and twist around in their seats at the sound of my voice. I put a hand on the back of the soda and raise my eyebrows.

It’s an affirmation of our friendship that Isak looks equal parts sheepish and amused as he hold up the portfolio. I immediately recognise it as my left thigh; a grumpy looking dude with a hipster beanie and a cup of cappuccino next to the words _capitalism destroyed my potatoes_.

I grin. “That one is one of my favourites, actually.”

“I only produce favourites,” Isak says, all sheepishness gone from his expression.

I nod my head towards the equipment. “Maybe you could go and prepare to perform miracles, and I’ll sit down with Even? Your ten o’clock is in five.”

Isak salutes me and gets up from the sofa. Before he walks away, he throws Even a glance and pats his pocket. “I’ll call you about the record.”

Even’s smile looks pleased. “Do that.”

Isak brushes past me, and my eyes flicker to his pocket before raising my eyebrows. _Fuck off,_ Isak mouths. He’s smiling.

Even’s consultation is thorough. He knows what he wants, and he has an artist’s eye to guide him. He leaves after Isak’s client, and Isak comes up behind me to watch. The tall figure sticks out as it side steps shorter pedestrians, the blond hair flailing its golden arms high above the rest. His hands are burrowed deep down in the pockets of a his denim jacket. I catch him shivering as his weak attempt at keeping the icy winds out fails him.

“At least he looks good,” I say. I’m holding a rough akvarell of what will eventually be on that man’s body. That will look good, too.

“He works at a record store,” Isak says. “There’s one I’m missing from my Kings of Convenience collection. I’m going to call him about it and he’ll try to find it for me.”

I turn to Isak, and I watch the way he is rubbing at his right shoulder, at the words hidden beneath the grey cotton. I smile. “That’s my collection.”

“He doesn’t know that.” Isak looks at me. “Which one is it that you’re missing again?”

“Declaration of Dependence.”

“Cool.”

“Yes, it’s quite fitting.” I throw an arm around his shoulder. “Can’t go a day without me, can you?”

Isak snorts. “I’d do just fine. Noora, on the other hand, she makes me coffee.”

I grin. “She doesn’t get you guys, though.”

“Jonas, shut up. You’re below me and my Kings of Convenience collection.”

I laugh. I’m looking forward to completing my collection.

~

My ex girlfriend hangs around a lot. Eva always enters in a maelstrom of brown hair and fluffy layers, giving all of us warm kisses with cold lips. She never slipped out of the routine after we broke up, and that’s fine, really. She just hangs around by the counter now, with Noora, instead of by the equipment, where I’m doodling new designs.

I watch Eva talk animatedly, pointing at a page in Noora’s sketchbook and gesturing wildly. Noora grabs one of Eva’s flailing hands and settles it by her side with a laugh. She throws an arm around Eva’s shoulders and say a couple of words, too soft for me to make out, and Eva nods enthusiastically. Noora’s thumb caresses Eva’s shoulder lightly. They sway together to the plunking of an acoustic guitar whilst Eva continues to study the drawing. The voice on the record sings softly:

_Dreams burn, but in ashes are gold. Dreams burn, but in ashes..._

The bell goes off, and my gaze snaps to the front door as Even enters. I quickly wipe my hands on my jeans and step forward to greet him.

“Good to see you, man. Are you ready to get started?”

Even pulls out of the hug with bright eyes and a wide smile. “You have no idea. I hear that Isak’s enjoying the record?”

Declaration of Dependence is playing. Isak came in with it last Monday, hearts in his eyes as he fell into the armchair, threw the record on the coffee table and stared dreamily into the air. The last piece of his assumed collection lay forgotten as he picked at his dark nail polish and spewed sickly sweet phrases about long legs and blond quiffs. “Yes, he loves it.” 

Even’s smile manages the impossible and becomes even wider.

I wave him over to one of the chairs and get ready to begin the process. Just as we’re about to start, when Even is sitting right in front of me, bare arm disinfected and decorated with the guidelines for the design, Isak materialises from the back room, as if summoned by the ancient power of sexual desire. He’s gripping a steaming coffee cup and wearing a white t-shirt that I don’t remember him wearing this morning. It’s considerably cleaner than the one he came in with, and it’s hugging his body tightly, showing off Noora’s handywork on his upper arms. He must have changed when Even came in.

By some miracle, Isak manages to play it cool, and his smile is curved and attractive as he perches himself on the chair next to us. “Nervous?” he says.

“I trust that I’m in capable hands.” Even is, presumably, talking about me, but his gaze is locked on Isak, returning Isak’s smile with a secretive one that makes his lips pucker up.

Isak drags a hand through his hair, and Even’s eyes follow the delicate flower designs that peek out from underneath his shirt sleeve. “I’m closing up shop, so I’ll be here when you finish.”

“I’ll come find you.” I think Even is trying to write Isak a novel with his eyes.

Isak grins. “Cool.” The novel seems to have been well received.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Isak takes care of his work duties after that. He really does. He just does it whilst eyefucking Even. It’s called multitasking. No biggie. But I must say that I’m a bit worried about Even’s lack of attention to the art that’s being permanently engraved on his person whilst he is mentally having a good time with my best friend. I could be tattooing Donald Trump in a mini skirt, for all he knows. At this point, I’m just hoping that’s not what Isak ends up doing. Without the client’s consent, that is. He is fond of political motives. He’s done weird things in the past, the majority of them on me. Still, an accidental Trump invasion on someone’s skin would be bad for business.

Somewhere in the middle of the sexual tension, Noora disappears into the backroom and comes back out again a few minutes later with her coat on. Her little black backpack is hanging from one arm, Eva is hanging from the other.

“We’re leaving!” she announces, arm tucked tightly around Eva’s elbow. “Isak, there’s some coffee ready to be brewed for when you close up. You just need to push the button.”

Isak rips his eyes away from Even for a moment and gives her a thumbs up. When he goes back to his client, he keeps his eye on the needle, thank god.

“She totally spoils you two, doesn’t she?” Eva has a teasing smile on her face.

“Always, all the time,” I say as I dip the needle in some yellow ink. “You should get her to cook you vegetable pasta, it’s amazing.”

“Oh, she’s getting me something much better.” Eva sounds like she’s about to burst from excitement, and I have to look up so I can see her bounce on her feet. “She’s designing my first tattoo!”

Isak laughs from the other side of the room. “Again, Eva? We gave up on you after the third time you let Jonas draw you something.”

“Well - “ Eva drags Noora closer “ - maybe Noora is more my style.”

Noora shakes her head at the floor, but the little laugh that escapes her lips betrays her.

“I bet she is,” I mumble to myself.  Even gives me a curious look, but I just shake my head.

The door falls shut behind the girls, and not many minutes later, I lift the needle from Even’s skin for the last time. “Done.”

By now, Isak’s over by the register with his customer, which leaves me alone with Even. I feel like I’m witnessing a strangely intimate moment as Even looks down at at the finished product.

The yellow dandelion stands out against his pale skin, a sun on an otherwise bland surface, and the stem and leaf is a pale green that fades out and drips down his forearm. Even traces the contours with his eyes, drifting from yellow to green, taking in the blotches at the outskirts of the tattoo, like drops of paint set free from an artist’s brush. When he’s taken it all in, something shifts in his eyes, and he swallows roughly.

I never push for people's stories. Stories rarely want to resurface, and that's the way it is. However…

Even rests his right hand in the crook of his left arm, right above the ink, and says: "A lot of people look down on dandelions, because they're weeds. I've never thought that was very fair. They can grow in any condition, against all odds. I think that's worth some admiration."

Sometimes, stories do resurface, and then I make sure to listen. Often the story behind the art is the real artwork.

I give Even a moment with this new addition to his body under the pretense that I’m getting something from the backroom. In reality, I just duck behind the curtain, walk up to the kitchen counter, and push the button to start brewing Isak’s coffee. It hums to life and the brown liquid starts dripping into the the mug. I watch it for a while, but then my eyes start drifting. They land on the table, where Noora has forgotten her sketchbook. It’s flipped open to a page filled with different flower motives. They all seem as though they’ve been plucked from a prospering meadow and then gone through a dream filter, making them look like they’ve come straight out of Wonderland.

Among some of the flower petals, words are nestled safely in elegant script. At the bottom of the page, there’s a particularly eye catching piece. It has the words  _Independent Mind_ wrapped up in magnified versions of cornflowers. Underneath it, little exclamation marks have been added in blue ink. I smile and absently flip the page. Here, I’m met with a quite different sight. The motives are still flowers, but they’re sloppily drawn, clearly a product of a drifting imagination rather than focused thought. These, too, have words among the petals, but it’s only one word, written over and over: _Eva, Eva, Eva…_

I quickly flip the notebook shut.

When I walk back out with the coffee, Even is by the counter with Isak. It’s only the two of them now, and they’re standing close. Isak’s hand is resting on the plaster that’s covering Even’s tattoo and speaking softly close to his ear. He leans back and looks at him questioningly, and Even laughs.

“Yeah?” Isak says. 

Even nods. “Yeah, definitely.”

I clear my throat, feeling a bit sorry for interrupting. “Do you want me to ring you up, Even?”

Even looks over at me, surprise in his eyes, and lays a casual hand on Isak’s arm. “Isak has already taken care of it, actually. I’m all set.”

“Cool.” We all look at each other for a moment, and then Even clears his throat.

“Right.” He squeezes Isak’s arm quickly. “I’ll see you this weekend?”

Isak nods. “I’ll meet you at the shop.”

When the door swings shut behind Even, Isak deflates.

“The weekend feels a bit far away, doesn’t it?” I say.

He looks out of the window at the darkening street and shakes his head. “You have no idea.”

I hesitate, turning things over in my mind, before making a quick decision.  “Go after him, then.”

Isak’s head snaps around. “What?”

“I’ll close up. Go after him.” I’m grinning, and Isak still looks bewildered.

“But - “

“You heard what I said, go!”

And now Isak’s grinning too, and after a lightning trip to the backroom to get his jacket, the door is swinging shut behind him. I follow him and peek out the window, watching him run like a mad man down the street. He catches up with Even at the street corner, and for a moment Even just stares at him, mouth hanging open. Then they’re kissing, and they do it with such vigor that a young woman walking past starts laughing.

I smile and take a sip of Isak’s coffee. Among the posters taped to the inside of the windows, our little pride flag peaks out, a bright spot swimming in a world of black and white. 

~

In February and March, most people who come to the parlour probably assume that we are five people working at the parlour, instead of three. Eva continues to frequent the shop, and I see Noora's eyes go wide every time, though I never mention it to her. Even pops in at all hours of the day, dropping Isak some music or a kiss, making my friend turn a fetching pink.

It's good times, it really is, but it breeds an itch under my skin. It's an itch that I can't scratch on my own. There's another half required, but I have no clue where to start looking for such a person, so I turn to plan B: Escapism.

The late afternoon is a crisp one, and the concrete is dry, for once. The board feels good tucked under my arm, the rough edges where the paint is pealing and the wood is laid bare a familiar sting against my palm. It's been a while.

It’s only me and another guy at the park. We nod to each other as I walk up to the bowl, and then I keep to myself. I try out some simple tricks to start out with, getting back into the feel of my board, the vibrations of wheels on concrete manifesting in my core, a familiar presence that settles my thoughts. Skating might be reckless on occasion, but today it’s therapeutic. Eventually, however, the pull of adrenalin becomes too tempting, and I creep closer to the border of recklessness. 

As I up my game, making the twists and turns more and more complex, I realise that I have the attention of the other guy in the park. He starts matching the pace at which I complicate my tricks with his own gradually more impressive moves. I catch him doing a heart-stopping drop, and something surges through my stomach as I think he will fall flat on his face. He lands gracefully though, and his long hair dances around him as he zooms past me, a wide grin splitting his features. He holds my gaze for a fraction of a second, and my breath does a funny little routine in my throat before it finds its way out of my mouth.

We dare each other to go higher, faster, sharper. Every few minutes, he’ll catch my gaze, and that splitting grin will overtake his face. Every time, my heart picks up pace, and the next twist will be even more heart-stopping than the last. I don’t feel myself losing control until I’ve already lost it.

It happens quickly. I’ve just come down from a dramatic drop, and as I zoom past him, he gives me an appreciative nod. As if he liked it. As if he liked watching me.

I go up the other side of the bowl with the intention to see it again. I go too fast, I twist my body too sharply, and all the while my mind is turning over images of lanky arms in grey hoodie sleeves and brown curls gracing slim shoulders and clear eyes and splitting grins and -

The board is no longer under my feet, and all I have time to think is: _fuck_.

Wheels and wood go in one direction, I go in the other, tumbling down the bowl like a barrel down a hill. My right knee bangs against the concrete, and a string of curse words run through my mind. When I reach the bottom of the bowl, I’m splayed out like a star fish, lipms stretched out around me and my head resting against the concrete, defeated.

For a moment, I watch the clouds above me as my knee throbs. The coverage is so total that the sky almost looks white. Like milk. If they let go of their blue haven, perhaps they could drip down, cover me in thick, white liquid until I don’t have to see the world and the world doesn’t have to see me. However, that’s not how it is, and the world sees me, and so does he.

His face pops into my field of vision. He’s still smiling, but it’s a bit hesitant, with crooked lips and a wrinkle between his eyes instead of the thousand watt grin doped on adrenalin. He reaches out with a strong hand, wide palm and defined knuckles, and cocks an eyebrow. “Help up?”

My hand slots into his, and I’m on my feet again. My knee throbs along with my heart. “Consider this the final blow to my pride,” I say, smiling, like him.

He laughs, breathy but heartfelt. “I think you held up alright. I’m Mikael.”

 _Mikael._ “I’m Jonas.”

His smile stretches into a grin. “Want to sit down?”

Brown eyes. That’s what I notice when we’re sitting close, our feet dangling into the bowl. He has brown eyes, steady and warm, like his hands.

His board is behind him, and we watch mine where it lies on the other side of the park, upside down, wheels in the air, like a defeated turtle. Its colourful geometric shapes are the only bright spot on the otherwise bland concrete. In the grey light, the neighbourhood outside the fence looks just as pale.

“You come here alone too, then?” The sounds of movement outside the park are muted. His voice is clear, prominent.

“Sometimes.” I shift next to him, trying to get away from the cold that’s creeping through my jeans. Our thighs brush. “Sort of clears your head, being here.”

Mikael raises his eyebrows. “You need that?”

I smile, wide, teasing. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He smiles back, but it’s softer. “Doesn’t everyone,” he mumbles.

We shift a bit closer. He looks down at my wrist, at the inked skin that peeks out beneath my rolled up sweater sleeve. His smile turns amused as he takes in the details. The entirety of my right forearm is an experiment, a collaboration between Isak and Noora, where Isak’s cartoonish little elves are slipping and sliding between the delicate petals of Noora’s startlingly realistic flowers.

“They’re funny,” Mikael says. He reaches out, and his thumb grazes one of the elves. “It’s brave, committing like that.”

I shrug. “I see them as memories.”

“They’re permanent, though.”

“So are memories.”

He looks up, mouth hanging open, before breaking into a laugh. “You know, I’m glad I met you today.”

Something warm bubbles up from my stomach and settles in my chest. “Same to you.”

He shifts closer, and now his leg is pressed up against mine. “Can you show me more?”

His expression is open and curious, and those brown eyes seem to melt into mine. I roll up my left sleeve until the forearm is bare and flip it so the inside shows. In the centre, surrounded by all the creatures of the ocean, is the word _patrimonio_ in square brackets. “For my parents.”

He tilts his head to read the script. “What does it mean?”

“Heritage.”

He nods. The way his brow wrinkles makes him look pensive.

I nudge my shoulder against his. “What?”

He sucks in a breath, quickly, so that it makes a swishing sound. “Quite a thing to have with you all the time, isn’t it? Where you come from. What’s been fed to you from the start. Sometimes you want to forget.”

I let that one sink in for a minute. A dog barks, and someone scolds it in an angry, accented voice. “I guess you’re right,” I say. “But it’s often easier to process than to suppress. Tattooing is my art form. It’s not just how I remember, it’s how I cope.”

Mikael nods. “And then you come out here when it gets too much?”

“Yeah.”

He nods again. “I get that. I make films. Or I want to, more like. I go to school. It’s always good to put the bad stuff in there. It doesn’t make it go away, but it gets better.”

Something has shifted. He looks vulnerable now.

If he was Isak, I would have put an arm around his shoulders. I would have squeezed him and asked how many tears or beers that were needed to make this alright. But this isn’t Isak. Instead, I put a hesitant hand on his leg. He looks at me, and I smile. “Better is all we can hope for.”

He swallows, and I watch his Adam's apple bop. I know that his eyes are on me, and it makes me tingle.

No, Mikael isn’t Isak. Mikael is something different.

Silence tastes better when you’re two. Perhaps it’s because it’s a conscious decision, and not just a thing that happens to be. With the right person, silence is comfortable. Mikael is the right person. His gaze wanders around the skate park, silently, and I feel at peace. The itching under my skin has stopped.

“I like this lighting.” He nods along to his own words, curls bouncing. “It’s so bland that anything could be a contrast.”

I examine the soft curve of his bottom lip. “Small things become interesting.”

He smiles into the air. “Everything has a story.” Suddenly, he springs up, all his old strength and energy restored. “I want to film something.”

I gesture to the empty bowl. “There’s no people.”

He grins down at me. “You’re people.”

I smile at his enthusiasm, but then I shake my head. “My knee’s kind of fucked.”

“Film me then!” He breaks into a run as he slides down the bowl, and calls over his shoulder: “This light was made to be captured!”

In the time it takes me to wriggle my phone out of my pocket, Mikael has reached my skateboard. He picks it up, turns it over a couple of times in his hands, looks at me. “Ready for the final blow to your pride?”

“Fuck off!” It comes out like a laugh, and I press record.

He’s good, that’s clearer now than ever. He’s taller than me, but the extra centimeters are all grace. His movements are playful, but they radiate control. Or at least they do, until he rushes past me, so close that his trouser leg brushes my sneakers, and starts belting out the lyrics to _Eye of the Tiger_. He gets sloppy after that, and I don’t pretend to be oblivious as to why. He’s watching reaction, watching me laugh. Green and brown are in constant interaction as we catch each other’s eyes across the park.

Eventually, it becomes impossible to keep up, and Michael trips off the board, flailing his arms and continuing up the side of the bowl without the board, determined to not lose his footing. He stops in front of me and almost falls into my lap as he laughs into the camera.

I end the recording, letting it freeze on Mikael’s beaming face, and lower the phone.

Mikael has dimples. Our faces are close. His breaths are laboured, and each one brings a warm gust of air across my face. His hands are braced on either side of me, and I can feel his thumbs pressing into my hips. I think he’s watching my lips. I lick them. He swallows.

A phone rings.

The distinct loss of heat when Mikael pulls back is both a disappointment and a relief to my heart that’s trying to dig its way out of my chest with each frantic beat. He keeps his distance as he speaks to the one on the other side of the line, a conversation that consists of a lot of tense facial expressions and rapid fire arabic. Once, he sends me a worried looks and says: “I’m with a friend,” and then there’s some more arabic before he hangs up. His shoulders are stiff and his movements clipped as he stuffs his phone in his pocket.

“Everything alright?”

“I’m late.” He gets up, and I follow, wincing as my knee protests.

“But you’re alright?”

He smiles tightly. “Yeah.” We watch each other, and I see that he doesn’t know what to do now, just like I see it when he finally does. He squeezes my shoulder, and then he takes a step back. “I’ll see you.”

When I watch him leave, I feel a little sad, and a little happy, all at once. I don’t know if I’m itching or not.

~

March blooms into April. Things are the same, in many ways, although I think a lot. When I catch Noora watching Eva, I wonder. When Isak kisses Even, my heart picks up speed. I keep turning over the memories. I still have the video on my phone. I keep coming back to it, keep searching for answers, but in the end, I just watch him laugh. When he grins into the camera, I smile, and I stop thinking so much.

It could have been easy, letting the memories fade as my friends fell in love around me, letting it all evaporate into bitter sweet fumes. It’s what would have happened, if things had stayed the same. But they don’t. They never do.

It starts with Isak.

The rain taps gently against the windows, and Isak’s watching the drops trickle down the glass with his lips around a bottle neck.

“Beer? At noon?” I take a seat next to him on the sofa. The parlour is empty except for us. Isak nods without taking his eyes off the glass. I try to read him, his absent gaze and tense jaw. “Even’s not coming over today?”

Isak takes another swig of his beer. “Even’s got his own stuff.”

He does. Yet he hasn’t missed Isak’s lunch break in over a month. “You two alright?”

“We’re fine.” Isak looks over at me, and at the sight of my questioning eyebrows, he deflates. “It’s just stress. Even’s stressed. He’s got this friend who’s like… Really religious, you know? And he hasn’t told him about us.” He reaches up and rubs at his right shoulder. His lips are turned down in a frown.

“Hey.” He looks at me, and in his eyes lies something I haven’t seen in a long time, something small, something scared. I rest my hand against his back, right below where Isak’s fingers curl around the top of his shoulder. “She came around, didn’t she?”

“Eventually,” Isak mumbles. He looks pained, and images of a very different Isak flashes through my mind. Images of an Isak who was dumped in my arms with a red face, cheeks wet. An Isak that spent weeks wasting away on my sofa, but not sleeping, never sleeping. All because of an idé, a reality that didn’t include his love.

I tuck him into my side, tightly. “There’s one thing that transcends all types of belief systems. You know what that is, Isak?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

“Yeah. And you and Even, you have that. It’ll be alright.”

The rain keeps dripping. We’re quiet. I rub my thumb against his shoulder, against the words underneath his t-shirt. The beer bottle rolls from one of Isak’s palms to the other, making the beer slosh against the glass.

I nod towards the bottle. “Got another one of those?”

“Fridge door.” Isak sips his beer, and I get up. I leave him watching the raindrops.

There’s chatter in the kitchen. Eva’s sitting on the counter, wrapping a scarf around her neck whilst looking at Noora. She’s propped up on an elbow next to Eva, cradling a cup of tea against her chest.

“No but really,” Eva says, “he dies at the end.”

Noora raises her eyebrows and smiles an open-mouthed, disbelieving smile. “Eva! He doesn’t!”

“But he’s shot!”

“He isn’t! It’s a dream, it’s all in his head!”

“You’re sneaking her in through the backdoor now?”

They both look at me, startled.

“Jonas!” Eva says. “Yes, I’m her dirty little secret, I’m leaving the way I came.”

I force back a smile and nod gravely. “Smart move.”

Eva hops down from the counter and points a finger at Noora. “This isn’t over. We’re watching the end again this weekend.”

Noora nods. “Sunday.”

“Sunday.” Eva plants a kiss on Noora’s cheek and grins before turning around and heading towards the door. “Bye Jonas!”

“Bye Eva!”

The door falls shut behind her. Noora’s watching the place where Eva just stood, clutching her cup with both hands. Her smile has dropped, like someone pulled the plug for the drain the moment Eva went out the door and the happiness was washed away from her face.

I watch her from the corner of my eye as I get my beer from the fridge. I lean against the counter next to hers as I pop the cap off the bottle. She still looks drained.

“You - “ I clear my throat “- you okay?”

She turns, eyes snapping into focus. “What? Yes, fine. Is Isak at the register?”

I shake my head. “He’s taking a break.”

“So no one’s at the register?” I shake my head again. Noora sighs. “You two, honestly.”

She drops her cup in the sink and ducks past the curtain. I wait for the jazz music to come fleeting, but it never does. The air leaves my lungs in one long, slow breath, and I angle my head towards the ceiling. There’s an ugly stain on the white paint. For a moment, I wonder how it got there. Then I drink my beer in silence.

~

Loud voices. Several of them. I’m getting closer to the parlour, it’s Monday morning, and the street is supposed to be dead right now. It’s supposed to be eyeliner and music and pen on paper, but it’s not, and the voices grow louder as I round the corner.

“What did you just say?” Isak’s voice is steady, but even from behind I can see him shaking. His hands are fists, ready to punch, and that alone makes me speed up. “If you’re trying to tell me how to live my life, I swear - “

“I don’t care what you do, just keep away from us!”

The voice is frantic, but for a moment I think it sounds familiar. It sounds like…

“Mikael, please.”

My stomach drops. _Of course._

I’m close enough now to see who Even is holding back, and the wild look on his face makes me feel sick.

Isak takes a step forward. “And what are you going to do if I don’t? Are you going to fight me?”

Mikael grits his teeth. “Fag.”

Isak tenses up. I see him raise his hand in slow motion. _“Isak!”_

His fist is in the air, but Mikael’s quicker. He rips himself from Even’s arms and lashes out, aiming a kick at Isak’s knee. It caves, and Isak crumples, leaving the punch hanging in the air between them.

I reach Isak just as he hits the pavement. I’m grabbing his shoulders, Even’s talking at a frantic speed, Mikael’s yelling, but then I look up into his eyes, and everything just stops.

I can see the moment he recognises me. Brown meets green. There are no more words. His mouth hangs open, he goes slack, and suddenly he’s no longer fighting Even’s grip. As he’s being hauled away, he looks haunted, and it makes my insides go cold. The sound of his laughter is on repeat in my head.

“Fucking idiot.”

I turn to Isak. His face is red, his jaw tight with anger and pain. He’s gripping his knee with both hands.

I loop an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get you inside.”

~

“Is he answering?”

“No.”

Noora finishes wrapping the fresh ice pack in a kitchen towel and places the bundle against Isak’s knee. “Try again?”

“I’ve called him six times, Noora. He’s not picking up.”

I’m pacing. I can tell by the strain in Isak’s voice that he would like to do the same.

“I just don’t get what happened.”

I look at him. He’s been dragging his hands through his hair, across his face. The curls stand on end and the eyeliner on his left eye is smudged.

Noora rests her hand on Isak’s ankle. “You don’t think Mikael’s hurt him, do you?”

“No.”

They both turn to look at me from the sofa. Isak raises his eyebrows. “You sound sure?”

I turn towards the door. It’s closed and locked. Across the glass at the top rests a sign, and the back of it reads: _We’re_ **_OPEN_ ** _to your suggestions!_

I wet my lips. “He’s his friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Isak says, “and Even’s pansexual. Parents have left their children over less.”

“Isak,” Noora whispers.

My stomach fills with cold, sharp stones. There’s a smiley face below the words on the sign. _We’re_ **_OPEN_ ** _to your suggestions!_

~

There’s a knock on my door. The apartment’s nothing but darkness, lumps of grey resting against a backdrop of twitching shadows. I reach out blindly, find a familiar rectangular shape and press the button. 03.21 and three missed calls from Isak. Another knock echoes through the apartment. I get up.

Isak’s face is a white smudge against the dark stairwell. His eyeliner has left black trails down his pale cheeks. “Even,” he says. Just that name. A broken sound. I drag him with me into the apartment.

His hands are cold against my sleep-warmed palms. We sit together on my rumbled duvé. I want to take his jacket off, want a cup of hot tea in his hands, but I know that he won’t let me. His eyes are empty. Isak needs words.

“You got a hold of him then?” I keep my voice low, as soft as the glow from the bedside lamp.

Isak reaches into his pocket wordlessly and pulls out his phone. His hands shake, and he sniffles as he has to types in the code a second time.

He doesn’t show me a text message, or a voice mail. It’s a Youtube video.

The quality is bad, but it’s clearly Even on the screen, standing in the middle of someone’s crowded living room. People are wearing button up shirts and tight dresses - it’s a party. The music is loud, but the party goers have fallen silent in favour of listening to Even.

“I love him!” Even is grinning, open-mouthed and wide. His whole face is split in two by the width of it. “That’s what you people don’t get, you don’t get love. You don’t get love like we do.”

His gaze never stops flickering, and even when he speaks, he doesn’t let go off the grin. “Is that a camera?” He has spotted the person filming and takes a step closer. “Isak, baby, I love you!”

Commotion in the background. A man’s voice speaking over the rest: “Police!”

The recording ends, freezing on Even in the middle of the room. Even, who’s naked.

I look at Isak, heart plummeting towards my stomach.

“It’s everywhere,” Isak says. His voice breaks, and I don’t know how much he’s cried, but it looks like he’s about to start again.

I reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. He shivers at the contact and squeezes his eyes shut. A tear slips out, wetting his lashes on it’s way down. It hangs on the tip of his chin for a second, quivering. “What’s happening, Jonas?”

I wipe the tear away before it lets go. “He didn’t look like himself.”

Isak opens his eyes. “What could have done that? Drugs?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think I can see him.” He bites his bottom lip, shakes his head slightly. “I can’t let him come over anymore.”

I look at him, try to see what’s going on inside him, what part of him that is in charge of the trigger. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Yes, but - “ He takes a shivering breath. “After Mikael? After this?” He gets up. He’s restless now, and his tense steps have him pacing in and out of the lamplight. One second, his back is a grey contour in the darkness, in the next, his face is lit up in warm tones. ”What am I supposed to do about this? It’s a fucking mess!”

He’s slipping. I sense it happening, and it’s like watching a car crash from the passenger seat. “Isak - “

“It doesn’t matter what I do, does it? It’s gone to shit, it’s all shit!”

He sounds hysteric. He is hysteric. “Shouldn’t you at least talk to him?”

“Talk to him?” Isak’s face is back in the lamplight, eyes wide and angry and scared. “How am I supposed to talk to him if I don’t know what the fuck is going on!”

“That’s why you talk to people, because you don’t know what the fuck is going on!”

Our voices have pierced the silence, violently. We stare at each other. His cheeks are still wet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

I don’t say anything. My mouth tastes sour and foreign.

The door slams as he leaves. It’s a car crash.

I lie down, and as the room gets lighter, my pillow becomes wet and warm. That’s when I cry, I think.

~

This is how I imagine a ghost town. The feeling of people’s presence, but no actual human interaction, no valuable words behind the worn down facades.

Isak and I keep our conversations short and to the point. Exchanges of information, nothing more, nothing less. But I watch him. I watch the way his cheeks lose colour and the skin under his eyes gains it as the days go past. I barely look at anyone else. Isak barely looks at anyone at all.

Noora tries to keep the conversation flowing, the mood light, but she’s struggling, too. There hasn’t been any music since the day I tried to confront her in the kitchen. She hasn’t worn lipstick in days. I think it has something to do with Eva not being around lately, and it reminds me that Noora has her own blues.

No music, no lipstick, and no laughter in the parlour. Only worn facades and hollow words.

On the third day, I break the pattern.

Isak’s wiping down the counter with a rag. The lights are low, the street’s growing dark. His movements lack energy, and he looks frail, hunched over the counter. He looks tried.

I move closer, carefully, with calculated steps. When I’m close enough, I put a hand on the counter. Isak’s gaze trails up my arm, neck, and finally reaches my face. His eyes are dull, almost fevered.

“You’re not sleeping, are you?”

He stares at me. “I’m sleeping a little.”

I nod. There’s a pause, silence layered with the rush of water and the squeaking of a tap. Noora’s doing dishes. “Have you talked to him yet?”

Isak looks away. It speaks for itself.

“Tell me, then. When you’ve talked to him.”

Isak nods. He tucks the rag under the counter. “Sorry,” he mumbles as he brushes past me. He disappears into the kitchen.

I take a deep breath and look out through the window.

There’s someone there, just outside the glass. He’s watching our pride flag, the flag that I smiled at the day Isak ran after Even. From where I’m standing in the darkening room, it only looks like a small, black triangle, but I know what it is. His face is unreadable, but from where he’s standing, he must knows what it is, too.

When I open the door, Mikael’s focus has shifted, and he looks at me with a whirlpool of tangled emotions in his eyes. His mouth hangs open, and for a second we just look at each other.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” he says at last. Then he turns around, and he walks away.

My heart is beating hard in my chest. I wait until he’s turned the corner, until he can no longer be seen, before I take a step out and let the door fall shut behind me. I start running.

When I’ve gulped down an espresso and is sitting with my hands buried in my hair four blocks away from the parlour, my heart has settled. The ugly thing resting in my stomach has not. I’ve left without my jacket. I decide to let it be. I’m not going back to the parlour tonight.

~

It’s dark, everything is dark, of course it is. But Isak’s been staying late the last couple of days. He might still be here.

My feet bring me through the dark main room, into an equally dark back room. I’ve always felt that the clock on the wall ticks louder at night. I get the same feeling now. I head towards the back wall, where there are two doors: the broom cupboard to the left and the door leading to the hallway on the right. I pick right. Here it’s even darker, it seems. Again, I’m faced with two options: the back door leading out and the slender staircase leading to the loft. I’ve already been outside today. I came back for something else. I go up.

Oslo and the moon lights up the dusty space. It’s a light like a spider's web, weightless and transparent. In the middle of it stands Isak, leaning out over the rotting windowsill, smoking a cigarette. He’s shirtless, and he shivers a little in the breeze. As I walk closer, every mole is visible on the pale skin, and so is the splash of colour on his right shoulder.

“Here you are.”

Isak takes another drag of his cigarette. “Here I am.” He holds out a cigarette and a lighter wordlessly.

“That kind of night, is it?”

He flicks the ash off his cigarette. It lands somewhere on the street, way down below. “It was overdue.”

I light up.

The grey tendrils of smoke are caught by the wind and carried up by invisible hands to the starry heavens. Beneath us, cars and buildings and street lights are all fighting for the title of the brightest in the night. Lights above and lights below. I look over at Isak, at his shoulder, at the art that I etched into his skin on a similar night.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple. They’re fused together, twirling, spinning, cascading over the skin, until they stop. Someone’s shaken the last drops of paint from the brush, and the skin is naked once more. Across the colours, thin, black cursive script forms three words: _Alt er love._

I brush my thumb against the curve of the A. “Do you remember that night?”

Isak chuckles, a soft sound that’s made rough by the smoke. “Kind of hard to forget, isn’t it?”

I smile. “You were really happy when you got that phone call.”

Isak furrows his brow. “Yeah.” Ashes tumble through the air. He looks at them thoughtfully as they fall. “It’s not really what changed that night, though. Having her approval. It’s not what made me do it.”

“No?”

Isak shakes his head. “No.”

I take a drag of my cigarette, feeling the smoke all the way down in my toes before letting it go. “What changed, then?”

Isak puts out his cigarette against the windowsill. “I accepted myself.”

The cars keep coming. The night keeps rushing. We watch the stars for a while.

I take another drag. “You sleeping here tonight?”

Isak nods. “Yeah.”

“Wanna head to bed now?”

“You go ahead. I’ll be down in a minute.”

When I put out my cigarette next to Isak’s, some of the ugly things in my stomach seem to die with it.

Downstairs, I pull two blankets from the broom cupboard and settle down on the sofa, fully dressed. I save a spot and a blanket for Isak, and curl up against the backrest. I’m still waiting for the sofa to dip and the leather to creak as my eyes slip shut.

~

I’m startled out of my dreams by a knuckles on glass. I look around wildly, trying to get a grip of my limbs and my environment. When I swing my legs over the edge of the sofa, I have time realise that there’s no Isak that I’m tripping over on the way to the door, but the thought is ripped from my mind as I spot the man on the other side of the glass. The denim jacket and the blond nest on top can only belong to one person, and I struggle to get the door open quickly enough to let Even in.

When I finally get the it open, I stare. His curls are sticking out of a thick woolen hat, and the slightly parted lips are chapped. He looks more like he’s stepping out of a winter day now than he did in January.

He clears his throat. “Hi,” he says. It sounds weak.

“Hi.” I scratch my head. “Isak. You’re here for Isak.”

He clenches his jaw and nods. “Is he - ?”

“Yeah, yeah he’s - “

There’s a commotion from the back of the parlour. I hear a door slam against a wall, and then something that sounds like a body falling to the floor.

I do a quick calculation in my head. Three people work at the parlour. Noora isn’t here yet, or she would have woken me up. I’m at the front door, talking to Even. So that leaves -

_“Shit.”_

Past the sofa, through the curtain and into the back room. I hear Even’s breaths close behind me as I rush over to the bathroom door. It’s thrown open, and Isak is on the floor, retching into the toilet boil.

I drop to my knees next to him, placing a careful hand on his back. He retches again, and tears spring forward at the corners of his eyes.

“You didn’t go to bed last night.”

He shakes his head and spits into the bowl.

My hand reaches up and cards through his curls. “When was the last time?”

He closes his eyes. His eyelids look transparent. “Got about… one hour. Night before last.”

I nod. He licks his lips and grimaces. Spits into the toilet again.

“Are you alright?” Even’s voice is soft, almost brittle.

Isak looks up at him in a daze. There’s a string of saliva clinging to his bottom lip and the skin under his eyes looks bruised. Even’s gaze is tender, and I notice that he looks just as tired. It’s not only chapped lips, it’s puffy skin and watery eyes. Isak climbs to his feet, and Even catches him as he stumbles. They’re clinging to each other’s upper arms, caught in a limbo of wanting to embrace but not wanting to let go of each other’s gaze.

Isak nods towards to the toilet. “Insomnia.”

Even nods and squeezes Isak’s arms. “Okay.”

Isak squeezes his arms back. “And you?”

Even closes his eyes. “Bipolar disorder.”

Isak nods. “Okay.”

And all of a sudden, they know what’s going on. In broad strokes, at least.

Isak reaches up and brushes his thumb against Even’s cheek. “Could you leave us alone for a bit, Jonas?”

The finer strokes, they aren’t met for my eyes. I close the door when I leave.

~

The street seems really long. Like, really really long. I’ve been walking for ages, and still I’m just over here. I’m tiny. Tiny with curls. Like Isak.

Isak. He has Even. That’s good. Good that they have each other. I can breathe now. Breathe in smoke and air. That’s what I’ve been doing. I’m by the yellow house now. Yellow bricks and white lace. For the curtains. The street is really long.

Wonder if Noora is still there. And Isak. Isak’s been with Even. All day. That’s good. Even has a nice smile. Not as nice as Mikael’s. Mikael’s better. I just need to see that smile. It will be good. Thought it would cheer me up, seeing that smile. That’s why I started walking. The film is in the parlour, under the counter. That’s where it is. Thought it’d cheer me up. Don’t remember why I need it though. I pass a dog taking it’s owner for a walk. I feel happy.

I go in through the back door, because it’s cold and the ally feels snug and warm. I drop my key twice when I try to stick it in the hole. The green dustbin sees it. It’s embarrassing, but pretty funny. I might laugh later.

The hall is dark, and then the kitchen is dark, and there’s no one there. Or at least not a person. There’s a cat. In the broom cupboard. It meows. It’s probably important to save the cat, so I open the door, because that’s how you save the cat.

It’s not a cat. It’s Noora and a phone.

“Hi,” she says. The light from the screen lights up her face. She’s still not wearing lipstick. I miss her wearing lipstick.

I step into the cupboard with her and close the door. “You’re in the cupboard,” I say.

Noora nods. “I was cleaning, but then Eva sent me a cat video, and I just… “ She waves her hand around, like that explains everything. It kind of does.

“Is it cute?” I sit down on the floor next to her. The floor is hard, a bit cold. I wrap my arms around my knees.

She smiles. It’s just a small smile. “Watch.”

I shuffle closer. The cat does something with some yarn. The yarn is pink.

“Cute,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says.

We’re quiet. The screen goes dark. I tilt my head up, and I watch the underside of the wooden steps above our heads. They look grey, because it’s dark. They’re not really. Few things that are grey in the dark are actually grey. They just seem that way.

Noora breaths are loud next to mine. She reaches out and takes my hand. “I’m in love with Eva.”

I let my head lull to the side so that I’m looking at her. “I know.”

She laughs a bit, and it’s a wet sound, like she’s crying. “I’m so bisexual.”

I think of the laughter under the counter, the thing that was supposed to cheer me up but hurts just as much as it sooths.

I squeeze Noora’s hand and look up into the darkness again. “I think it’s spreading.”

She laughs, and then there’s a sound coming out of my mouth, and I think we’re both laughing, for a bit.

“It’s pathetic, really,” she says, “that we’re sitting here, labeling ourselves. Should love have labels?”

I nod along to her words. “It’s the capitalists, they’ve ruined us.”

“The capitalists?”

“Mhm. They want to sell those little shirts with the labels on them. Like, I’m pansexual. Some of them say that. Kind of want one of those.”

She looks at me with raised eyebrows. “You’re drunk.”

“High,” I correct. I smack my lips. I think I’m thirsty. Or hungry. “Do you want hot chocolate?”

“We only have water to mix the powder with. It’s gross.”

I nod. “Do you want some?”

Her cheeks are still damp, but she grins. “Definitely.”

I pat her cheek as I get to my feet. “You’re a good person. I’ll get you chocolate.”

There are people out in the main room. I hear them as I wait for the water to boil. My back is against the wall next to the curtain, my feet braced against the linoleum. I watch the kettle.

“It’s just hard, because we’ve been friends for so long, you know? It’s hard to let go.” Even’s voice. It’s accompanied by a soft sound, a soothing sound. Fingers through hair.

“Well, you might not have to.” Isak shifts. I think they’re on the sofa. “My mother is really religious. She came around. It took weeks, but she came around. Mikael might, too.”

Even hums. “Maybe.”

Isak shifts again. I hear the leather creak. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

“Maybe.” Even laughs. There’s a wet sound, like kissing.

I smile. The water boils.

~

**ONE MONTH LATER**

“It’s too tight.”

“Isak, it’s _exactly_ as it’s supposed to be.”

Isak tugs at the tie and makes exaggerated gasping sounds. “I’ll die before we get to Even.”

I pat him on the shoulder. “I promise you, when your boyfriend is there to greet you with champagne at the door, you will still be in one piece.”

He points accusingly at my chest. “You’re not wearing a tie! Why are you not wearing a tie?”

I look down at my shirt - white, crisp and decidedly free of ties. “It’s fashion. I’m fashion.”

Isak looks at me with raised eyebrows. “It’s the 17th of May. Tell me where you’re hiding the tie.”

“Fine.” I hand it over, even though I tied his because he didn’t know how to tie it. Sometimes you just have to let children have their way.

He struggles with the knot, clearly trying to make it as tight as possible. We fall into silence.

“I - “ Isak clears his throat. His eyes are still fixed on the tie. “I talked to Mikael the other day.”

 _Long curls brown eyes loud laugh._ It’s still with me, after all these months. I stay silent.

“He wanted to talk to me about… Well, about religion. And being gay.”

I look at him. “What did you say?”

Isak shrugs. “Just told him a bit about my mum. That you can believe in a God and still let love be on top.”

My heart beats a bit faster. “And what did he say to that?”

“Not much, really. He just got this look on his face.”

“A look?”

Isak nods. He frowns at the tie. “I don’t think Mikael is homophobic.”

I look at his fingers. He’s made a mess of it. “No?”

Isak shakes his head. “No. I think he was scared.”

“Scared?”

“Of himself.”

I swallow roughly. There’s something building in my chest. “Fear makes us do stupid things.”

“It does.” He wets his lips quickly and looks up at me. “He… He actually mentioned you, at one point.”

My throat feels clogged. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Isak stares at me.

I clear my throat. “Yeah, about that. I- ” I scratch my head. “I think I know what I want for Christmas.”

Isak raises his eyebrows. “Okay?”

I nod. “One of those shirts that has _pansexual_ written on them.”

Isak smiles slowly. “I’ll see if I can pull some strings.”

I nod again. “Cool.”

Isak shakes his head, still smiling. “Honestly, Jonas, you have so much love to give that I’m not even a little surprised that you don’t care about genitalia when you fall for people.”

“Genitalia _or_ gender.”

He gives me a look, and I have trouble reading it, until he speaks. “Whoever gets you in the end should consider themselves very lucky.”

Noora waits for us at the door of the parlour. We’ve come here to get ready together, but while Isak and I have only done some half hearted attempts at looking presentable, she’s absolutely glowing. High heels, slim dress pants and sharp blond hair grazing the shoulders of a fitted, dark blazer. Her red lipstick is back in place, and so is her smile.

I whistle as we come closer. “You have a girlfriend somewhere who will be very happy to see you.”

She cocks her head to the side, trying hard to fight back a satisfied smile. “She will be, if we get going. Eva’s at the tram stop already.” Her eyes travel down to my chest. “What happened to your tie?”

Isak’s hand clamps down on my shoulder. “One word, I swear - “

“Isak should have been sent to boarding school in England at a young age, that’s what didn’t happen.”

He laughs. “Fuck you.”

“Here.” Noora’s fingers clasp around my tie. “Isak, there are ribbons in my bag, will you get them for me?”

With bands of red, white, and blue adorning the lapels of our blazers, we head down the street. Flags, laughter, and people dressed either too cold or too warm for the weather, the buzz of a colourful day about to begin. It’s not raining, not yet, which feels like a blessing in itself.

When we get to the tram stop, Eva waves a little paper flag at us in greeting, and then she bundles up the skirts of her bunad in order to run over to Noora and give her a kiss.

“You look _amazing!_ Oh Jesus, did I mess up the lipstick?”

We greet each other loudly, and so does everyone else. There are people everywhere. After I’ve given Eva a kiss on the cheek, my eyes wander through the masses, and my gaze catches on someone in the outskirts of the mob.

He isn’t wearing a suit, but he looks nice. A pressed, white shirt collar sticks out over the top of a knitted sweater and he has a scarf slung around his neck. His curls are combed, his shoes are clean. He’s carrying a skateboard.

He’s already watching me when my eyes reach his face. He smiles.

“Guys, I’ll be back in a second.”

“The tram leaves in two minutes!”

“Just a second.” I’m already pushing my way through the masses.

His eyes are soft and warm, just like I remember them. Up close, in person, they look nothing like on film. I’d forgotten how good this feels.

“Hi,” he says.

I smile. “Hi.”

He throws a glance down at his board, then back up at me. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

I gesture to the people around us. “It’s the 17th of May, everyone has somewhere to be.”

“Jonas!” Isak’s holding the tram door open. Noora and Eva are peeking out from the compartment. “Are you coming or what?”

I look back at Mikael. A deep breath, a quick decision. “I’ll take the next one!”

Mikael raises his eyebrows.

I brush my hand against his. “We’re celebrating the whole day, I think it’s alright to miss the first glass of champagne.”

The tram rattles to life behind me, but my eyes are focused on Mikael’s laughing face.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

 **Message from Isak:** _He’s hot._

I grin down at the screen.

 **Message to Isak:** _I know._

When my hand brushes Mikael’s a second time, he grabs it, and doesn’t let go.

~

_The parlour wallows in light by the time I'm finished. I watch Isak twist in front of the mirror, warm sunlight caressing his bare back as he twists his neck to get a look at the new addition to his body. My eyes are sore and grainy. I'm smiling._

_"I'm free," Isak mumbles softly._

_I take a step closer, watching his expression through the mirror. "I did it right, then?"_

_Isak smiles. "More than right. It didn't even hurt."_

_I know that it’s a lie. I ask him about it, later. I know. But I also know that it felt different, this one piece of art that he let me ink into his skin at three in the morning. When I ask him, he tells me: "It hurt, but in a good way, you know? It hurt in the best way, 'cause I knew that I was breaking free." That's what he tells me. "It hurt in the best way."_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with me to the end! This has been a WIP for quite some time, but now, in honour of Skam Fic Week, I've finally finished it. Please leave me some kudos if you liked it. Comments are also much appreciated, feedback is welcomed with open arms!
> 
> Disclaimer: The scene where Jonas is high might romanticise the drug, but it is not meant as an encouragement for people to try it. I have taken artistic liberties, as I have not experienced it myself. This is not an accurate representation of being high. Please stay safe and make responsible choices <3


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